Unquenched: Confessions of the Chronically Unsatisfied
One Man's Descent into the Arid Wastelands of Intimacy Interruptus
Cracks knuckles, takes a long drag off a cigarette
“Before I launch right into the rauchy writing that you surely already are drooling to devour - I want to remind you to take part in the experience. Each week, I will post various stories, tall tales, or tales that tell it like it is whether you like it or not. Your role in all this is to look for those chances to comment and share your little life story so that we can keep the reads worth reading over and over again - for the comments. Plus, think of it as releasing something - because the sexual release you are looking for may be long and too far gone by now. Thanks for Reading, BUBS”.
Listen up, sad sacks - ol' Bubba's fixin' to drop a truth bomb that'll sear the very lining offa your withered, lust-starved souls. See, when the passion flames start guttering out in a relationship, it ain't just some temporary drought. Naw, it's a goddamn sexual Armageddon - a hellstorm of rejection and desiccated desire that'll have you questioning whether you even qualify as a full-fledged man anymore. so, gather 'round you poor pathetic saps and be warned now, this yarn's gonna be a real doozy. The kind that makes your tender pearls clench up tighter than a scared prairie dog’s nuts that never dropped.
See, we're gonna dive straight into the festering heart of male desire here. Rip the pretty plastic sheathing right off that ugly, pulsating truth about relationships and what happens when the passion goes AWOL like a MASH extra with dysentery.
Things always start out hot and heavy, don't they? Two tangled bodies, all groping hands and exploratory tongues. Fluids flowing like an open hydrant at a dog show. You're both drooling and rutting like hormone-crazed wildebeests, lost in those first delirious throes of lust.
But then...well, then the novelty starts to fade. Her lips feeling a little less pillowy, his funky man-musk becoming more noxious than exotic with each passing day. One day you wake up and WHAM - the magic's gone. Like a goddamn trapdoor opened up and swallowed that spark whole.
From then on, it's a pantsless descent into madness, folks. A bona fide carnival of heartache and rejection that'll have you questioning every shred of confidence and self-worth you got. Let's call it...the Ballad of the Perpetually Blueballed.
See, folks spend so much damn time frettin' over the fairytale beginnings - the giddy courtship, the earth-shattering orgasms, the intoxicating scent of new love. But what they conveniently forget is that passion's a wildfire, and like any blaze, it's destined to smolder into a pathetic pile of ash if y'ain't stokin' them flames constant-like.
You'll spend nights tossing and turning, every creak of the bedsprings getting your hopes up like a dog who heard the pop-top of a treat bag. But it's all lies - lies and the quiet, deadening silence of a partner profoundly Not In The Mood.
At first, you'll try bargaining. Slipping her a couple Franklins to grease the gears of cooperation. Promising him the most mind-blowing slobber-fest this side of an adult film premiére if he'll just pony up a little action.
But it's no use. At a certain point, you gotta face the harsh, withering truth - your partner's lust has shriveled up and turned to dust. Like a famine-ravaged peasant, their appetite for The Horizontal Monster Mash has ceased to exist entirely.
That's when the crazy really starts setting in, buckos. You'll find yourself spiraling down a rabid-hole of self-doubt and armchair psychoanalyzing, concocting all sorts of batty explanations for your arid predicament.
"Maybe I'm giving off pungent, Anti-Aphrodisiac pheromones that act as a natural chastity field!" you'll cry, furiously lathering your potsmell pits with a kaleidoscope of spray-on scent sludges. "Or perhaps it's some deep-seated trauma from a past life - maybe I was beaten to death by frisky baboons who mistook my impressive manhood for a fist-sized banana?"
The rationalization will never end, my unsatisfied friends. It'll be an endless parade of desperate Googling, dodgy online diagnoses, and homemade remedies ripped from the duct-taped pages of your Idiot's Guide to Stamina and Virility.
And through it all, you'll be battling that rising tide of resentment too. That bubbling cauldron of bitter, Jaeger-fueled loathing for your partner who's left you flapping forlornly in the cold, cruel winds of rejection like a battered freeway tarpaulin.
You'll curse them as they sleep, hollering invectives like "You callous harpy!" or "Selfish prick-tease!" into their unsuspecting eardrums. Punctuating each randy tirade with fresh blows against the drywall until your palms are bloody and the neighbors start dialing Police Non-Emergency numbers.
It's a vicious, dehumanizing cycle - tearing you asunder from the inside out like a rabid ferret trapped in a burlap sack. Eventual, you'll start wondering..."Who am I anymore, beyond this shackled prisoner of my own unsated appetites?"
That's right, kitten. You'll fully and completely lose your goddamn mind. About the only solace you'll find is cranking your meat to a bloody pulp while your tear-soaked eyes glaze over reruns of Brokeback Mountain like a 12-year-old with a fresh Skinemax subscription.
That's the burden I bear, darlin'. A sexual Sisyphus, if ya will, forever pushin' that boulder of desire up a hill made slick with indifference and resentment. Each mornin' I wake, chest poundin' with a hunger so fierce it's damn near feral. But the other half...well, he's happy livin' off stale crumbs - the occasional peck on the cheek or half-hearted grope servin' as piss-poor sustenance for a man dyin' of malnutrition from the inside out.
Take my buddy Jared, for instance. Dude was head-over-boots for his man Carl from the moment they locked eyes at a haunted hayride back in '09. The chemistry was electric, the passion incendiary - they'd sneak off between arcades to sloppily devour each other like a couple of half-starved wolves.
But a few years down the line, somethin' changed. Carl's fire started to dwindle, from a roarin' blaze to a feeble flickerof disinterest. These days, Jared's lucky if he can coax a half-chub out from beneath the layers of emotional paddin' his partner's acquired.
He's tried everything - hangin' fishin' lures on the damn ceiling fan, airbrushin' a porno straight outta Caligula on the drywall. But Carl just grunts and rolls over, seemingly numb to any and all erotic gestures.
It's tragic, really, to see a stallion like Jared rendered so impotent by indifference. His fantasies curdled into resentment till that spark of lust turned rancid and poisonous. Dude's trapped in an endless, Sisyphean struggle - forever chasing the intimacy that's rolled out of reach like a blown-out tire on the interstate.
See, when the fires of desire start bankin', it ain't just your loins that take the hit. Naw, that rejection, that soul-shrivelin' apathy...it burrows deep, like some kinda rabid parasite gnawing at the very core of your being.
First it's the little things - that cocksure swagger gettin' a mite less struttier, the once twinklin' eyes dimmin' to a dull, haunted gaze. You start questionin' yourself at every turn, pickin' apart each flaw and inadequacy like a bored child peelin' the wings off a fly.
"Maybe if I hit the gym harder..." you'll mutter, sculpting that doughy physique into a rippling slab of pec-tastic beefcake. But it's all for naught, ain't it? 'Cause no amount of six-pack abs or freshly waxed man-scaping can fill that abyssal void where your sense of worth used to reside.
Now it’s your turn BOYS - RELEASE YOUR INNER HORROR STORIES (you can even do it anonymously because holding them inside doesn’t allow others to read this and go #metoo. CALLING ALL pent-up pervs, enough jacking off to the Swimsuit Issue - time to get those bony typing fingers moving and unload all your anguished tales of intimacy interruptus down in the comments!
Let's talk about my pal, Jim. Imagine a man who looks like he could bench press a truck and still have energy left for a marathon romp. A gym rat, a chiseled god among mere mortals, worshipped by every fitness junkie and yet, at home, he's a fallen angel. His wife, Linda, she's taken up knitting. So here we have Jim, the man with the libido of a entire Roman army orgy free for all, and he finds himself competing with Walmart clearance aisle yarn and needles.
Jim tried to rekindle the flame - he didn’t just toss in the white towel without a fight. Once, he bought her a set of Victoria's Secret lingerie, the kind that could make a nun reconsider her vows, the kind that causes you to reconsider whether you need a second job. Linda took one look and asked if he got the receipt. She's knitting a sweater while Jim's standing there with a hard-on and a lace teddy in his hand, feeling like an idiot. Even then, Jim wasn’t admitting defeat.
One night, Jim got off a little earlier than normal and beat Linda home - he had to set the mood for what he had in store. Candles, soft music, the whole shebang - maybe not as much as the lingerie, but he missed the return date on that wasted investment anyway and they were just collecting dust in the bag in the back of the closet for Christs sake. And so the time finally arrived and Linda walked in, saw the candles, and said, "Oh, how sweet! You made dinner all cute and romantic like." She sat down at the table, completely oblivious to the fact that Jim had planned to eat something entirely different. I mean the steak was definitely one of his better triumphs, but it wasn't what Jim had in mind and sadly, it was the only thing he got a taste of that night.
It's a special sorta hell, this anguished purgatory of unmet needs and unrequited desires. Each mornin' you wake, chest clenched with that gnawing ache of abandonment, only to plaster on a brittle facsimile of contentment before the day's cruel pantomime begins anew.
The rejection festers, tumorous and malignant, methodically stripmining any remnants of confidence and self-esteem until you're a hollowed-out husk - bereft of anything resembling dignity or pride. You're adrift in a wasteland of your own shattered aspirations, lungs caked with the ash of dreams turned to bitter smoke on disinterested lips.
That's when the worst of it starts creepin' in - that caustic cocktail of resentment and self-loathing, burblin' up from the depths like acidic bile. You start resenting your partner's indifference, their obliviousness to your anguish...but that vitriol always ricochets inward, doesn't it? A searing self-hatred that burns hotter with each rebuffed advance, each awkward dry hump into the abyss.
Bitter spite becomes your lone sustenance, a pitiful fuel that keeps you staggering ever onward through that emotional evisceration. You fantasize about cutting ties, drafting anguished goodbyes in your mind like the scrawlings of a jilted lover. But in the end, even that vengeful reverie seems more trouble than it's worth - crushing under the weight of its own nihilistic pointlessness.
So you resign yourself to this purgatory of lovelessness, spiritually flatlining by degrees until that searing desperation dwindles to a dull, muted ache. An endless Bataan march of the doomed and unsatisfied, perpetually slogging towards a horizon of hopelessly quashed desires - each labored step shredding a little more of your already tattered soul.
So what do you do? You soldier on, playin' the role of the devoted partner and meanwhile your manhood shrivels and rots from the lack of use otherwise known as emotional neglect. All the while, that deafening chorus of voices - the guys at the sports bar, the slick fellas in the cologne ads, and eventually your own demented psyche - they mock you, questionin' if your brain count and sperm count have pulled the old switcheroo on ya. At least your saving money not having to waste what little you have on the Cialis or over the counter Viagra when times are HARD UP.
Craving another taste of torture - try on my main man Trent for size - I mean, nobody else is. Picture it, a prime slab of all-American beefcake. Strapping fella like him, you'd think the line of suitors would stretch clear across the Tri-State area. But ever since he shacked up with his beau Marcus, it's like someone lassoed his manhood and hogcuffwent that shit to the bedpost where they starved it to death and then kicked it for good measure.
Trent lives for the rasslin' - not that weak, soap opera stuff they pimp on basic cable, but the real deal. Oiled up, drenched in sweat, two sculpted hunks grappling for dominance and straining against taut musculature as the crowd roars in homoerotic delirium.
The way Trent tells it, their sex life used to be its own damn circus - a kaleidoscope of lubed-up limbs and guttural roars that'd make a young Brokeback blush. But Marcus? Dude just lays there, limp and unresponsive as a rag doll, gawkin' at the ceiling while Trent vainly tries to rouse even the faintest flicker of excitement.
And the worst part? The AUDACITY of that listless lump - the way he'll casually pass wind mid-thrust or scroll grindr rando videos while Trent's layin' everything on the mat, beads of perspiration glistening as he grinds against the indifference that use to make him howl at the moon.
It's a special sorta emasculation, I reckon - to have your vigor siphoned by scornful apathy time and again. To beat your head against that brick wall of impotent desire until your skull's cracked and you're seeing nothing but the swirling void where your zeal used to burn bright and true. And so we rage, we deny, we craft a fortress of deluded hope even as the moat of hopelessness laps at our feet. We cling to the faintest memories of when passion had color and heat - back when nights weren't just a graveyard of shattered dreams and unsatisfied hungers. And truth be told, that shit is for the birds.
Don’t you worry - I am an equal opportunity offender - I didn’t forget the special gals out there with a story to share: Time to play show-and-tell with your harrowed phantoms of devastated manhood, ladies! Bare those calloused souls and make my unsatisfied brothers feel a kinship in thwarted cravings most unclean down yonder!
Me? Well, I bury that pain deep, let it ferment into a bitter, wretched vinegar that turns my heart into a callused, unrecognizable husk. Because in this world of shattered dreams and compromised desires, the cruelest torture of all is false hope - that siren song promisin' ecstasy right ahead though it is always just out of reach, like a carrot danglin' from the end of a very, very short stick. Honestly, it's better to embrace the darkness, to let the nihilistic void swallow you whole. At least then, you stop expectin' pleasure and simply exist, an empty vessel adrift in a loveless sea of alienation and quiet despair.
And eventually you wake up and the fire that once burned barely flickers - the desire you once had has disappeared. Your vigor for that adrenaline rush you once only could satisfy with the rush of pented up man juice had reduced itself to raunchy porn reruns that barely excite anything, much less replace the lack of an errection that you long ago forgot actually felt half ass decent. Instead you rant and ramble till the screen your pouring your heart out to blurs with the salty sting of your impotent and wasted tears. It's all you got left in this prison of unconsummated need - bitter words and broiled emotions, served up ragin' and raw for a cold, unfeelin' world to choke on. I mean somebody should, am I right?
Right or wrong in the end, there's only one truth that salves the burn, to replace the desire and demand that your manhood once thrived on and expected from you - this is where some dumbass created a meme that goes something like this: YOU HAD ONE JOB. And since that job is as out of order as your ballsack here’s my DEAR ABBY advice for you - try to cauterize that oozing wound of want with gallons of cheap whiskey and Brokeback reruns or a borrowed subscription to Naked Sword or Pornhub and schedule a long steamy shower date with good old Mr.Right Handerson. Because in this depraved pantomime of love, sometimes all that's left is to drown in nostalgia and beer-soaked tears until the cruel facade of intimacy fades to black.
So there it is, people! The scatological, sordid truth behind Love's little deathblow - The Erotic Flatline. An unholy descent into madness, bitterness, and the desperate, unfulfilled howling of a lust-scorched soul.
Sweet dreams, you toxic bastards! And may the plaintive, dusty throbbing of your perpetually denied boners lull you to a restless, self-loathing slumber tonight and every night henceforth...
Share the dysfunctional circus already - double penetration never felt this good, I assure you - well, it’s a little different for a guy. Anyway, the freak show is just getting deliriously underway, and there's nothing even remotely freaky about missing this tantalizingly raunchy romp through sheets of every seasons past. Not on my lucid, depraved watch!
Happy Reading (even if you did it and didn’t tell a soul) Jesus loves you too.
Happy Sunday.